Just a Chemical Reaction
by I.D.Gr
Summary: Is there any truth to Rick's scathing words? A peek into Rick's past life with Beth's mother. (fluff/angst; mostly pre-canon; formerly titled "Sweater")
1. Sweater

One summer's day, when Rick's habitual anger seemed to have left him, he wore a sweater. That morning, she missed the tune of his rants. Quiet replaced their typical verbal spars. He didn't look at her, he didn't look at anything. His thoughts seemed to drift away, eyes unfocused in a daze. Curious, she shadowed him in the crowded halls.

When his sleeve caught on the corner of his locker, she saw marks on his pale skin. Blues, purples, and yellows painted an angry spot on his otherwise pasty arm. In the last days before the school year ended, temperatures rose. So too, apparently, did the tempers of working fathers.

He sent her a glare and yanked the fabric of his sleeve back down to his wrist. Later, she found him sitting at the curb as the buses rolled in. He faced the ground, refusing to look at anything but his feet. He didn't move as she sat down next to him. Her fingers wandered until they found his. She felt his muscles tense at her touch, but she was undeterred. She squeezed his hand. She could see he breathed a bit steadier then.

* * *

A/N I have other ideas n I might keep this going, idk. Anyway crit/reviews appreciated ! :))


	2. You

I had long-since relinquished any romantic notions of a prison cell, a clichéd hum of a harmonica, a tally chart engraved into the walls, a shiv made of a sharpened spoon. Instead of orange I wore green, instead of a cell I'd been graced with an agonizing lack of circulation in my limbs from being strapped to the wall, like an action figure in a box. They woke me at odd hours for their interrogation sessions, stabbing their probes into my brain, getting freaky with my hippocampus.

Memories flickered by. Old ones that lay dormant for years—and should've stayed that way—coming back to life only now in this space-age torture chamber, sober and suffering from withdrawal symptoms. The old house, generic and humourless, standing there at the curb of the cul-de-sac and reminding me too much of the place I grew up in. Running past the car decorated in streamers, cans on strings and JUST MARRIED spray paint and climbing into the UFO parked next to it instead. The past became closer, almost tangible, while the present stretched far into the distance.

I thought of you.

I haven't for years. Or maybe I have, drowning any memory of you with the click of a beer can tab. Always at the back of my mind.

Stupid, arrogant, stick-up-your-ass, cold-hearted bitch, _you_.

* * *

In the end, you and I barely spoke. If at all, it was through Beth.

By the counter, you'd dip your teabag into your mug with a precise tedium that had become a nuisance to me. The mind-boggling exactitude of everything you did, your words, your movements. Once exciting when we were teenagers, ping-ponging come-backs as we played hooky, had evolved into a minefield, one misstep away from divorce at any moment.

'Beth's mathletes tournament is today,' you said by the sink without moving your gaze from the driveway.

It was breakfast, for me at least, lunch for you. I shuffled around to get my cereal. Wordlessly, you moved to get out of my way, but I could still feel the weight in the air, the expectation of an answer. I opened the fridge, sniffed the orange juice carton and grimaced.

'This's gone bad.'

'She's worked really hard for this, you know.' Your grip tightened around the mug.

'Mmmhmm.' I slurped on my spoonfuls of Cherrios, singling out the ones that haven't gone soggy yet.

Your mug slammed against the countertop tile. The door shut. You left me alone with my cereal.

* * *

I never relished being Beth's idol as much as you thought I did. The pressure, frankly, I could've done without.

Beth never asked me to attend her mathletes game, her soccer games, her dumb kiddy theatre productions when all she did was stand at the back with a crayon tree taped over her shoulders. And the thing about me is: if you never ask, I never answer. Simple. People should know better.

These days it was rare that we ever crossed paths before she left for school. One day she did, sporting a Walkman at her hip, obnoxiously neon spongy headphones wrapped around her hair. If she did this every morning, I'd have no idea. I knew, though, that this was the kind of thing that would normally trigger a lecture in you, but when you saw Beth, you were silent. So, this was normal.

'You have drool on your lip,' was all she greeted me with as she passed me by for her Pop Tart. Meanwhile, you stood off to the side, leaning against the counter in your work clothes, cradling a coffee mug. Looking down at me from afar.

You had turned her against me. That's the mantra of every divorced-father-to-be, isn't it? Though if I'm being honest, I don't know who turned who against who. I watched as Beth sat across from me, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else, not talking to either of us. I remembered how she used to run into my arms at every chance she got, the sight of me so rare and precious to her. Here, over a decade later, she picked at her Pop Tart, reluctantly eating it crumb by crumb. Every now and then she'd steal a glance up at me, a distant look in her eyes as she took me in. Her father, she probably thought. What a bizarre loser he was. Her father who would soon abandon her twice more than he already had. She looked away.

I cleared my throat. 'H-hey Beth.' She didn't look up. 'Wanna hear a j-o-oke?'

She stayed silent, unmoving, but I took the fact that she didn't make to get up or leave as encouragement. 'When you go to the bathroom, you're American. When you leave the bathroom, you're American.' She didn't say anything but seemed attentive. 'What are you when you're _in_ the bathroom?'

'What?' I ignored the bored scepticism in her voice.

'EUROPEAN!'

Beth frowned but after a moment, as if mulling it over in her head, let out a loud, clumsy guffaw. Her gangly adolescent limbs moved about as she laughed, putting a hand to her mouth as she tried to cover the mess of crumbs.

Maybe it was just nervous laughter, releasing some pent-up tension, maybe she was humouring me. Faking it. It wasn't my best, really. I'd heard it from some robot on G-87, left the bar thinking it was hilarious, but it was probably meagre at best to sober ears. But I'd made Beth happy. For whatever reason, she was happy again. I didn't want overthink it, so I didn't and I went on, 'Y'see because, you're peeing… and European…'

'Yeah, yeah,' said Beth still chuckling, but slowly catching her breath.

'Yeah, it's-it's a play on words, see—'

'Yes, Dad. I got it.'

You did your best to stand still, stay quiet but when I dared sneak a glance in your direction, I noticed your lips curled, small wrinkles formed around your eyes. I had almost forgotten your smile. But it had vanished as soon as it came. You looked down at your watch. Laughter had ground to a halt. Weighed down by silence. Beth swallowed, then looked down at her wrist, picking at some scab I'd never noticed. The memories returned, the ones that reminded us why this was, why it didn't happen anymore.

'Beth, we should get going,' you said ushering our daughter away from me like I was a wild zoo animal. Beth, for her part, acknowledged me even less, replacing the headphones to her ears and pressing the volume button until I could faintly hear the Smashing Pumpkins from where I still sat with my sunny side ups. The two of you walked out the door, off to school, to work. I was left alone again.

Our little trio, each sequestered to their own heads.

* * *

It was the middle of the night for you, early evening for me. I'd come to a decision.

This was as lucid as I'd felt in years and yet I could already feel you deriding me for being tipsy. Funny how I was preparing for an argument, though if my plan were to follow through, there wouldn't be one.

'Watcha doing?' Your tone was deceptively chipper. Your silhouette in the doorway made me jump, though I was quick to hide it. I must not have been quiet enough, haphazardly stuffing the UFO to the brim, the clanks of metal on metal echoing up to your bedroom where you practised a conventional circadian rhythm.

'Was just about to head out for some ice cream.' I couldn't tell whether my unoriginality was a deliberate irony; an inside joke so pretentious even the insiders didn't understand, or a sincere ineptitude when it came to lying to you.

You cocked your head, 'It's a little late for that, isn't it?' I shrugged. The ruse was pointless. 'I have something else in mind.' I acquiesced to trail behind you, still planning to carry on once you'd fallen asleep.

You were quiet as you led me to our rooftop, decorated with two lawn chairs and a cooler. This isn't what I'd expected. With Beth off to camp, I knew this would've been the perfect occasion to get it out of your system, a few scathing remarks there, a scream here, but you were calm, in a way that almost felt genuine were it not tinged with weariness.

The setting was more romantic than either of us had dared to venture since high school. The cooler full of beer was a surprise, you'd long-since stopped drinking with me when it became obvious I couldn't hold my liquor. As we sat down on those ungodly uncomfortable chairs, I felt a wave of nostalgia for when we first moved here. Sipping on Coke on the lawn, running through the sprinklers, getting kicked out of the theatre because our sarcasm was too loud, when you'd still humour an escapade through intergalactic customs, when we still joked about whether Gear Heads called them doctors or engineers. Life was lighter then.

You leaned into the cooler to fetch two beers, offering one to me. Facing the moon, you pulled the tab and tipped the can to your lips. You swallowed. We sat as the cicadas chirped, until finally you spoke.

'We aren't enough for you.' "We" was you and Beth, I remember when it was you and me. You left no room for disagreement, you didn't need to. It wasn't like you to shatter the bubble of illusion we'd created, tended to lovingly like a second child. Not even a trace of performative anger. Just resignation. Sadness. I could only stare, unopened can in my hands. You turned to me with a pained look. 'Why?'

You were uncharacteristically candid, and so I returned the favour. 'I dunno.'

'What's out there that you won't give up on, too?'

 _'I don't know.'_ I said it a little quicker, impatient. Irritated that my motives were so transparent to you. But you were right.

We stayed there for hours, enjoying the novelty of getting drunk together again, though we both knew it was also the last time. And for a while, I didn't think of returning to the garage.

* * *

When next we spoke, it wasn't so light-hearted. Tension thickened the air. I looked up to find you standing a good few feet away from me, at arms' length. Your devil-may-care smirk, your annoyed "Oh what's Rick done this time" sigh of frustration were gone. Brows furrowed, pupils small as pins, you were holding your breath, scared. I sat there and wondered, if for once, I should take something seriously. But there was no point.

We were strangers. You'd found out one thing too many about what I did without you. You had morals and I didn't. You were good and I wasn't.

It was only a few million. A civilisation so far from here most humans didn't have a concept of what they looked like. Not like you knew them personally enough to mourn. Your lips tightened. You looked like you wanted to run away from me and I turned my back to you. It wasn't about what we did say anymore, all about what we didn't.

Screw that shit.

* * *

The second time, I told myself, I'd be quiet. But it didn't matter. You weren't home to hear me back out of the driveway. I'd awoken one afternoon to an empty house. A vindictive part of me wanted to wait, wanted to see the hesitation in your posture. Wanted the chance to hear you call after me.

But you'd made your decision, and I mine.


	3. After

When night gave way to morning, the slow gradient from black to blue, there was a certain calm. He in the baby's nursery, she lying naked amongst the sheets, savouring the wee hours before her caffeinated workday began. Oh, how they loved to play house. She watched the smoke from her cigarette rise and dissipate as it met the ceiling fan, unperturbed and spinning about dutifully. The impermanence of it all reassured her.

The sheets were cold in the early dawn. With every movement, their shadows were cast long across the room. This was the morning-after, or so it could only be called on the technicality that it was past twelve am, it would still be hours before breakfast.

If she tried hard enough, she might be able to forget last night, let the memories evaporate along with her tobacco-infused breath. Every one of these little disagreements had exploded into yelling matches, never able to be calmed through some kind of deadpan joke. They were so similar, the same comments and insults, that they'd blur together indiscernibly like an overexposed film. She couldn't remember what had started it this time, but it had happened at dinner. Utensils clanged against their plates, the rhythm of their conversation halted. She'd hiss at him, careful to cover the baby's ears. He'd yell. His energy, good or bad, always seemed to bubble beneath the surface until it exploded without a care for any potential casualties. A few glasses shattered. They were too good, each other's equal, able to pick out their flaws with just the right words. They'd go in circles until one day Rick found a way to cheat the system. He'd leave. It didn't matter what either said or did when he'd get up and decide destroying his liver at some distant bar was more important. The door slammed as he left her to pick up the pieces.

What came next, after a few empty bottles had dulled his senses she was sure, were slow, staggering steps up to the bedroom. He was so uncoordinated when he was hammered that it sometimes took him a few tries, interrupting Beth's sleep, before he ended up in their bedroom. He'd stutter out her name a few times more than he would while sober. He's trip and crawl across their bed, gripping the sheets between his fingers like an epic hike up Mount Everest. She'd groan, half annoyance half sleepy confusion. He'd shift his weight as he settled next to her and whisper apologies. Hints of beer hit her nostrils with every word. His voice would grow with desperation, words slurred into each other. An arm would slide around her back as another went between the fabric of her pyjamas and the bare skin of her stomach. Sometimes she'd kick him out of bed. Last night, she didn't.

As the light of day began to creep beyond the curtains of their windows, two shadows moved together with a deft familiarity. Even with as skin brushed against each other, their breath less than a millimetre away, his frantic pleas never ceased. He told her he was sorry. That he was a fuck-up who ruined everything. He was sorry. He was sorry. He held her tighter, just to reassure himself that she was still there, afraid to let her go even while she was in his grasp.

Later, they'd sink back into the mattress and out of sheer exhaustion. They'd forget what brought them here.

They'd had fights, arguments. It was commonplace, so much so that one could say—as some have—that it was the basis of their entire relationship. What was once witty banter, a verbal spar as they leaned over a pair of classroom desks, had grown into ritual, their blows softened to teasing until it simply became a sharing of ideas, jokes, an intellectual debate for the sole purpose of reminding each other they weren't alone. They were both too precocious, too guarded to admit that they might be stupid, desperate, _normal_ enough to seek the other's company for its own sake. The added layer of interplanetary crime helped obscure it even more.

When did it stop becoming fun? She had her answer when Beth's cries echoed, muffled as it passed through the stretch of hallway between their bedroom and the nursery.

Neither made to get up, lying next to each other still dreaming, procrastinating. There was something special about this hour of night/day. Time slowed. Between sleep and wakefulness, they were at once lucid and carelessly languid. The crinkle of the sheets, the steady presence of his breath. His fingers brushed a hair across her face before tracing the edge of her cheek, delicately, in the way that his words weren't. He watched her eyes flutter, feeling the weight of his gaze, her lips curled into a sleepy smile. She brushed her feet, ice-cold, against his. It was quiet, no jokes, no insults. They could just be.

The hand of the clock ticked in tune with the rotation of the fan as Beth's cries continued from where she lay in her crib. The wails of an empty stomach or a soiled diaper, or both. She mumbled and turned before reaching a hand out to search for her glasses on the side table. He put a hand on her shoulder.

She plopped back onto the pillow, nestling into the blankets while she watched the curve of his back as he sat up to dress. The hard edges of his face softened in the dim blue of the room, the stark lines of his premature wrinkles, his unibrow hidden in the shadows. Belt buckled, his feet padded across the hall to the nursery. Whatever happened the night before, as it inevitably did, was too easily forgotten. And that was exactly what allowed it to happen again. She leaned over to fetch her cigarettes out of the side table's drawer.


End file.
